On the Edge of a Dream
by Taelle
Summary: Gimli the dwarf cannot sleep


On the Edge of a Dream  
  
I should be sleeping. We ran for hours yesterday, and we'll  
run again tomorrow. The orcs are getting away and we can't  
really afford to stop for the night, only it's impossible to  
go so long without any rest. I should be sleeping now, but I  
can't.  
  
Or maybe I can't wake up. All those days since Lothlorien I  
walk around as in a dream. Everything's still enchanted: I  
left the elves' land, but it's still with me. He said that  
the memory would be my reward. Such an elven thing to say,  
too. But I think I'm beginning to understand this. My  
memory's like a mirror, true - but some days I feel like I'm  
surrounded by this mirror, nearly living in it.  
  
I wonder what would my father say if he knew what I'm  
thinking. Something about dwarves and elves not mixing well,  
probably. Oh, our family was never very vindictive. Plenty  
of dwarves still can't talk about Nauglamir. Not so with us,  
but ... to each his own. Dwarves in the caves, elves in the  
forest and so on. I used to think the same.  
  
But now... I'm changed. And it's not the end, I'm changing  
still. Well, some things, of course, stay the same. I always  
looked for beauty, pursued beauty. I'm a dwarf - if we see  
something beautiful, we want to keep it. It used to be  
simple. What can be more natural than admiring someone's  
craftwork, or treasures found under our mountains? These are  
the things in our blood.  
  
But can this be enough? I'm not meant to live my life under  
the mountain, not any more. Oh, I miss home, true. Who  
doesn't? I try to imagine it, try to make the memory calm  
me. Only I can't trust my memory any more. Where my eye  
should see sharp and clear lines of good dwarven work, now  
mists and pastels appear.  
  
That mirror of Galadriel's - I never thought to see it. I  
was always taught that elven magic is better left alone. And  
then she brought me there. Just appeared before me when I  
sat under one of those trees and suddenly I knew I had to  
follow her. So I did. And saw the mirror. Doesn't matter  
that much what you see in it. It's just... it seems to be  
smooth as a jewel, but it's not. The ripples start, and all  
the clarity disappears, and then you see: of course it's not  
a jewel, it's just water. Ordinary water, but not ordinary  
at the same time.  
  
I probably started to change even before that. I slept in  
the houses of elves, I ate with them, but I thought it  
wasn't about me. Just another pretty picture to keep in  
memory.  
  
I didn't notice the picture becoming alive. When did the  
elven songs and the elven gardens stop being exotic as a new  
jewel and became a thing of necessity, nestled in the stash  
of memory that I'll hide to the last days? I never noticed.  
Before now. Before Lothlorien.  
  
Boromir was afraid to go into Lothlorien. Maybe I should  
have been, too. People like Boromir don't get frightened  
without reason. I think he knew that this forest would  
change our lives forever, and that was what troubled him.  
But what use is it to be afraid? What does Galadriel's  
mirror show you if not your own soul and heart? And I'm not  
the kind of dwarf who is afraid of himself.  
  
And after looking at yourself in that mirror, there's no  
going back. You can't forget the truth and pretend it  
doesn't exist. Maybe Men can; they can be anything they  
want. We dwarves only can be ourselves.  
  
Do elves even worry about things like that? Do they worry at  
all? I look at Legolas, and sometimes I think he's like a  
mirror himself: I see only myself and my thoughts reflecting  
back at me. What is he really thinking?  
  
Here he stands, and he may as well be far from here. We went  
a long way with him, and there is still a longer one to go.  
We faced enemies and entered the darkness, and I trusted him  
to be there. I trust him - there's no question of it. But do  
I know him?  
  
For a moment I thought I did. There in the strange forest  
full of elves who stayed out of our eyes, walking with him,  
talking, but not really talking - I was sure I knew him  
better than any dwarf who worked and played and drank with  
me.  
  
When we walked around Lothlorien, I didn't think about him  
being an elf. It was just him, my companion, someone  
surprisingly easy to talk with and at the same time so  
different from me that it was a challenge to explore him, to  
get deeper into his mind and soul and see what jewels I  
could find.  
  
And then we parted ways, and I looked at him going up these  
damned trees and I was reminded of who he is and who I am.  
And I was thinking about him again, only in another way. I  
was taught to distrust elves; all dwarves do in some ways.  
But at the same time no true dwarf could help being  
intrigued by their beauty.  
  
Maybe we do something in common, only our races see beauty  
in different forms. His is easy to see. He is like a crystal  
so well polished by nature that it doesn't even need working  
over, just the setting worthy of it for everyone to be  
enchanted. But how could he see any beauty in me?  
  
I know what I am like. I'm a fine dwarf, many have told me  
that. Does it matter for an elf? Maybe for Legolas all  
dwarves are about the same - no distinction between fine and  
ugly, young and old, just dwarves.   
  
I don't want to compare myself to him; for some reason it  
scares me. I shouldn't compare: we are made of too different  
stuff. I keep telling myself this, and usually it is true. I  
like the difference; I never met someone like him, and I  
want to explore this mine of new possibilities.  
  
By day we are companions and we have our mission and our  
roles to play, all is easy and fine, and all obstacles we  
meet are good food for a dwarven axe and an elven bow.  
  
But at night... night is his time. Here he stands, off in  
that dreamland where all the elves go to. It is fine for  
him, but what am I doing tossing and turning, trying to  
follow him?  
  
No, I really should sleep. No dwarf ever did anything good  
by not sleeping at night. I should leave the dreams to  
Legolas and go to sleep. Tomorrow will be another day, and  
there'll obstacles I can ram through. And dreams? Maybe  
Legolas will tell me his sometime. Later. Maybe tomorrow. 


End file.
